Same As It Ever Was
by ThirdGorchBro
Summary: The destruction of Team Angel brings the Scoobies back together again. Wackiness ensues.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy own Buffy and Angel. I used to own Joss Whedon's soul (picked it up cheap on eBay), but I traded it to a mysterious stranger for a handful of magic beans.

Author's Notes: This is my first attempt at fanfiction, and feedback (especially the constructive kind) is much appreciated. Also, despite the summary, this is not a comedy. There will be no wackiness. Well, probably not. Mostly this will be about the Scooby Gang reconnecting, since as an old-school Core Four fan I was displeased by their estrangement in Season 7. After the first chapter, Illyria will be the only Angel character making an appearance (for a while). Hope you enjoy it. And if not, please tell me why, because my writing could definitely stand some improvement.

* * *

"Well, personally," said Angel, taking a few steps forward, "I kinda want to slay the dragon." He took a tighter grip on his sword as the others stepped up beside him and the demon army drew closer. Briefly, he savored the freedom of this moment. All the pain and loss and mistakes and burdens of destiny were behind him now, and the blessed release of death was only minutes away. Then the demons were upon them. "Let's go to work," Angel said, and swung his sword at the nearest ones.

Beside him, he heard Spike howling exultantly, and Illyria moved past him in a flash of blue, slaughtering their foes with her bare hands. Angel quickly fell into a rhythm, slashing away at the hapless demons around him. Ahead he could see some extremely large demon towering over the hordes below, and above that, the dragon circled in the rain-swept sky. But soon his world shrank to the circle made by his sword-arm, and the endless foes that loomed out of the darkness, clutching at him only to be cut down.

Sudden shouts of triumph drew his attention. Turning, he saw Gunn collapse, his axe falling from his hands. The mob of demons surrounding the stricken man piled onto him, then lifted him up and began carrying him toward the portal. Cursing, Angel fought to get to Gunn's side. Out of nowhere, Illyria and Spike waded into the fray, and the three scattered the demons surrounding their fallen friend. When they reached him, Gunn lay on his back, his eyes glassy, and the puddles of rainwater underneath his body began staining red.

Angel knelt down and clasped Gunn's chilled hands in his own. Above him, Illyria and Spike held off the surrounding demons ,but Angel's attention focused on his friend. Gunn looked up at him and smiled. "Helluva ride," he whispered. Angel felt the life leave his body, and he closed Gunn's eyes. A wave of grief passed over Angel, but anger quickly took its place. He stood up and attacked his enemies with renewed vigor.

Angel and Spike fought back to back as Illyria stormed off, seeking more victims. "You notice somethin'?" Spike said after a few moments. "They're not tryin' to kill us." Angel boggled at the inanity of this statement, but then a chill settled over him as he focused on the way their enemies were fighting. The demon warriors were armed with a mixture of swords and clubs, and Angel realized they had passed up any number of opportunities to swipe off his head. The ones with the swords seemed to be directing most of their strikes at his arms and legs, and those with the clubs were the only ones attacking his head or body. "They want to capture us," he gasped. "Bingo," said Spike.

Above it all, the dragon had settled down on the roof of the Hyperion, overlooking the carnage below. It made no move to attack, simply watching the battle. Suddenly, it called out something in a voice like a thousand bass drums, in a language Angel could not understand. The tall demon, which Angel had lost track of, suddenly loomed out of the darkness and batted Illyria aside. The godling hit a nearby wall with enough force to crack the brick, and slumped to the ground, stunned. The demons that had been fighting her quickly turned towards Angel and Spike.

The two vampires fought desperately, fear of capture giving their tired limbs new strength, but they were outnumbered too badly. With a suicidal disregard for their own safety, the demon warriors threw themselves at Angel and Spike, swamping them under. Angel could hear a wordless roar of fear and desperation, and he wasn't sure if it was Spike or himself making it. Losing his grip on his sword, he continued to strike at his assailants with his fists, but they piled on top of him and dragged him to the ground. Their clubs pounded into him, breaking his bones and preventing him from regaining his feet.

A giant hand suddenly reached down and plucked Angel from the ground, squeezing his arms to his sides. He struggled in vain, unable to break its grip. Angel looked over to see Spike, apparently unconscious, clutched in the giant demon's other hand. The demon turned and began marching toward the portal. Ahead of it, the dragon and most of the lesser demons were already streaming toward the glowing portal. Angel twisted his head around and glimpsed Illyria getting to her feet. A desperate hope flared up in his heart, and he renewed his wiggling struggle. But he could see a dozen or so demons, acting as a rear guard, converge on Illyria, blocking her from pursuit.

Up ahead, the portal glowed brighter, and Angel felt hope die within him. The giant demon squeezed him tighter, ending his struggle. Angel could now see through the portal to a hellish red sky and black rock, and thousands of demons. And standing just on the other side, grinning at him, was something that looked a lot like Lilah Morgan. Angel slumped in the giant's fist and felt a bleak, despairing chuckle force its way though his lips. It was over, and he had lost. No glorious death. Instead he had condemned Spike and himself to eternal torment. And it was no more than they deserved.

Angel turned his head one last time to look back at his world. It wasn't much of a view, he reflected. A dark, rain-soaked alley filled with dead demons. He could see Illyria still battling, but there was no chance she would reach him now. And then Angel felt a tingle of ozone as the giant demon passed through the portal. Almost as soon as it had, the portal closed, with Angel and Spike on the wrong side. The demon did not loosen its hold, though. Angel turned his head to look down at Lilah. She smirked up at him.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to see you, Angel," she said. "And let me be the first to welcome you to your new home. Now and forever." And Angel felt the cold truth of her words. There would be no miraculous escape engineered by the Powers, this time. They were done with him. He wanted to say something defiant, but the words turned to ashes in his mouth. There just wasn't any point.

Illyria could see Angel and Spike being carried through the portal, and attacked the pathetic creatures surrounding her even more fiercely. She finished them off quickly, but it was too late. The vampires had been taken, and the portal was closed. With her power to move between dimensions gone, Illyria could not follow. She cast her gaze around the alley, but there were no more opponents to kill.

Illyria felt another unwelcome emotion filtering through her. Consulting the shell's memories, she realized it was called "despair." Illyria did not know what to do, and this displeased her. The Circle of the Black Thorn was destroyed, so she could not keep killing them. The minions of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart were gone or dead. With Wesley and Charles dead, and with Angel and Spike taken, there was no one to serve as her guide to this unfamiliar world. She briefly considered assuming the form of the shell and seeking out the Burkles, but the shell's memories told her they were unlikely to react well to her true appearance. They would not be able to serve as her guides.

After a while, Illyria walked over to Charles' body and gazed at it. Like Wesley, he did not appear very different for being dead, save for the fact that he no longer breathed or moved in any way. For the Old Ones, death was merely a time of sleep. The permanence of death for lower beings was something Illyria did not understand, and did not care to contemplate. They were really nothing but muck, and she should not have these feelings of grief. And yet she did.

Bending over, Illyria picked up the body and carried it into the building called the Hyperion. The shell had many memories of this place, some happy, some unhappy. But it had been an important place to the shell, and to the others as well. Illyria carried Charles' body over to where she had placed Wesley just before the battle, and laid them next to each other. The she sat down on the steps nearby, and wondered what she was going to do next. She sat there for a long time, unmoving.

She might have sat there until the walls fell down around her, but after several hours the air in the place changed, and Illyria smelled magic. She stood and turned to see the air crackle and flash, revealing a single individual. Illyria regretted that she would not be able to kill more, but she flexed her fingers and moved to confront the intruder.

What she saw was a small human woman with red hair and green eyes. Although the human seemed innocuous to the naked eye, Illyria could detect the presence of great power within her, power that rivaled that of the sorcerer Vail. Illyria hoped this woman would prove more of a challenge than he had. As she moved to confront the human, Illyria felt the shell's memories prickling at her. The shell had known this person, and did not consider her an enemy.

Willow Rosenberg stood facing Illyria, her eyes widening in shock as she glimpsed the bodies of Wesley and Charles laying on the floor behind her. She looked back at Illyria, her eyes growing dark as anger and magic welled up within her. Illyria prepared herself for an attack, but the woman kept control, and did not unleash her power. Instead she said, without preamble, "Who are you, and what the hell is going on here?" And Illyria felt that was a most pertinent question, indeed.


	2. Chapter Two

Willow Rosenberg was one of the most powerful practitioners of the mystic arts on Earth. She was respected, even feared, among her fellow witches, warlocks, wizards, sorcerers, thaumaturges, and necromancers, both human and demon. Her deeds had won renown even in other dimensions. She was a powerful figure in the rebuilt Council of Watchers, and Slayers across the globe went into battle at her direction. None of that, however, made a bit of difference to her uncooperative legs, which were cramping something fierce.  
  
"Ow, ow, ow! Dammit!" exclaimed Willow, painfully untangling herself from the lotus position she had been sitting in for over an hour. It was no use, she just couldn't calm her mind enough to meditate tonight. Sighing, she stood and walked out of the mediation room into the candle-lit hallway of the coven house. Willow headed down the hallway toward the sitting room. She needed counsel, and Amelia Harkness was certainly not shy about giving advice.  
  
The coven in Devon, situated on the northern coast of the peninsula about midway between Ilfracombe and Lynton, was a place Willow found herself returning to time and time again. It was a place she could find respite from the pressures of her duties for the Council, where she could renew her connection with the earth, and where she could consult the wisdom of witches who were much more experienced - if not more powerful - than herself.  
  
As Willow entered the sitting room, she mentally braced herself for the usual range of reactions she knew she would receive. As expected, the younger student witches, sitting together in the far corner, looked at her then quickly looked away and began whispering together. Some of the older witches in the room looked at her with disapproval or refused to meet her eyes at all. These were the ones who disapproved of her independence and use of certain dangerous magics. Other witches smiled at her, and some simply ignored her altogether, lost in their thoughts or a book. Miss Harkness rose from her seat by the fire, her dark eyes warm but penetrating, and smiled.  
  
"Good evening, Willow," she said in her rich voice. "Come, sit with me." She sat back down as Willow took the empty chair next to her. "So," she continued, "how was your meditation tonight?" Willow made a face. "No joy," she said, gloomily. "I couldn't seem to clear my mind tonight." Miss Harkness looked concerned. "Is there anything weighing heavily on your mind lately?"  
  
Willow waved her hand dismissively. "Nothing out of the ordinary," she replied. "Just the usual Council stuff." Miss Harkness leaned back into her chair and looked thoughtfully at Willow. She said nothing for a few minutes, and Willow found herself fidgeting under the older woman's gaze. In times past, she might have started babbling to fill the silence, but Willow had greatly improved her patience and self-discipline over the past year. Stilling herself, she waited silently for Miss Harkness to speak.  
  
"It was not too long ago that you fought that terrible man," Miss Harkness said finally. "Are you still experiencing the effects?" Willow smiled to herself. "That terrible man" was the only way Miss Harkness ever referred to the Chinese sorcerer who had called himself (somewhat arrogantly) Yen Lo-Wang, the King of Hell, after a Chinese deity. What his real name was no one knew, but he had been old and clever and powerful, and had battled the Watchers' Council for control of all the new Slayers in China. In the end, Willow had faced and defeated him in a duel of magic, trapping him in a demon dimension. She hoped it was one with boiling oil, like the hell his namesake had ruled. The battle had been intensely draining, and Willow had spent the last few weeks recuperating in London and here.  
  
"I think I'm fully recovered," Willow said. "My strength and control have returned, anyway." She frowned slightly, her brain focusing on what her body was feeling. "I have been feeling a little weird today, though" she continued, "like something's a little ... off, I guess. Or like there's something just at the edge of my vision, but I can't see it." Miss Harkness leaned forward and cupped Willow's chin in her hand. Willow waited passively as the older witch gazed into her eyes. "Hmm," she murmured after a moment, "your aura seems fine." She sat back into her chair again. "Perhaps you should sleep instead of meditating."  
  
Willow shrugged. "It's probably nothing." She stood up from the chair. "I think I will get some sleep, though. I probably need to head back to London tomorrow." Miss Harkness looked up at her. "Whatever you feel is best, dear. You know you're welcome to stay here as long as you need." Willow smiled at the older witch. "I know. I'm grateful for your kindness." Alone of all the witches in the coven, Amelia Harkness had never displayed any fear of Willow. From the first day Willow had met her, Miss Harkness had simply taken her in and taught her the things she needed most - patience, balance, and harmony. In the two years since their relationship had begun, Willow had failed to remember those lessons more than once. The dark magics that she had absorbed and practiced were a part of her now, and she would never be entirely free of them. But Miss Harkness had demonstrated an endless patience for Willow's occasional stumbles that Willow would never forget, and for which she would always be grateful.  
  
That night, Willow dreamed. A kaleidoscope of images passed before her eyes. She saw Angel, Spike, Wesley and Gunn battling demons. A dark shadow hung over the images, and she could feel alien presences watching with her. Or maybe she was watching with them. A towering rage suffused her being, and she felt dark magic welling up inside her. The images changed. Angel, Spike, Gunn, and something she couldn't quite see stood together in an alley she knew (the way one often just knows something in a dream) that they were behind the Hyperion Hotel. They were battling hordes of demons, and losing. Again she sensed gigantic presences watching with her, and their minds were now filled with unholy glee, as well as anger. She could hear a voice, calling out in a harsh, unknown language, and she could feel the flames of hell, and the pounding of drums. And she could smell smoke.  
  
Some instinct warning her, Willow dragged herself up out of the dream with an effort of will. The chanting had stopped, but she could still feel heat and hear drums. As she came closer to wakefulness, she realized that the "drums" were the noise of someone pounding on the door to her room, and that it was very hot. Willow jerked up, wide awake, and stared in horror at a the far wall of her room. Something had been written on it in fiery letters, and there were flames licking up from the floor around her bed. She could hear voices out in the hallway calling her name, and the pounding on her door redoubled. For a heartbeat Willow was terrified that there were demons out there, trying to get her, but then she recognized the voices as coven members.  
  
Willow could still feel the magic burning in her veins, she felt a panicked desire to blast her way out of the room. With a tremendous effort of will, she brought herself under control and focused her mind on calming the fires. Within a minute, the flickering flames had died down to nothing. Willow hopped out of bed and looked at the door to her room, still closed. She could feel that it had been sealed magically, although she didn't remember doing it. With a wave of her hand, she broke the seal and unlocked the door. Miss Harkness and three other witches piled into the room. "What happened?" gasped the older woman. Willow fixed her gaze on the hideous writing that spread across her wall, the letters now black ash against the white-painted wood. "I don't know," she replied in a quavering voice. "But I think something bad is happening in Los Angeles."  
  
Miss Harkness was nothing if not efficient. After Willow related the events of her dream, the coven was quickly put to work preparing a teleportation spell. Willow got on the phone to the Council headquarters in London and e-mailed them pictures of the symbols on her wall she had taken with her digital camera. Since Willow had almost single-handedly brought the Council into the digital age, they already had samples of every known demonic script on their computers, and a program (that she had designed herself) for translating them. Soon after that, she was talking to a very grumpy Giles, who definitely needed his morning tea. It was already six in the morning, which meant it was ten o'clock P.M. the previous night in L.A. Willow felt time slipping away as she and Giles argued the merits of teleporting directly to the Hyperion or waiting for the translators to finish and contacting the Slayers nearest to L.A.  
  
Willow and Giles had been in polite disagreement on the subject of Angel and Wolfram and Hart ever since they left Sunnydale, over a year ago. Willow, along with Buffy and Faith, had been certain that Angel and the others were up to some devious plan to destroy Wolfram and Hart from within, and that he could still be trusted. Giles had insisted that, even if they could trust Angel, Wes, Fred and Gunn, they had no way of knowing whether the people now working for them could be trusted, and that since the Council was particularly vulnerable in the early stages of rebuilding, it would be best to minimize contact. When Andrew had returned from his mission to retrieve that crazy Slayer from L.A. with the stunning news that Spike was alive, Willow and Giles had disagreed slightly less politely on whether to tell Buffy, who was living in semi-retirement in Rome by that time. Eventually, Willow had allowed herself to be persuaded to keep it a secret, and had even instilled enough fear in Andrew to make sure he didn't spill the news to the Slayer. But now it appeared that, whatever Angel's plans had been, he was having a permanent falling out with the Senior Partners. Giles warned Willow of the dangers of teleporting in unannounced, dismissed her concerns about the urgency of the situation, reminded her that the Council's needs took priority over Angel's, and finally outright forbade her to go. Willow told Giles to stuff himself, then squeaked out an apology and hung up.  
  
Less than two hours later, the coven was ready. Willow stood in the center of the circle they made, calming her mind and mentally preparing some of her most potent defensive and offensive spells. Miss Harkness stepped over to her and said, quietly, "Be careful, Willow. You may have to do more than fight when you get to Los Angeles." Willow looked at her, confused. "In your dream, you were linked to those so-called Senior Partners," Miss Harkness continued. "They may attempt to re-open that link."  
  
"And take over my mind?" Willow asked, gloomily. Miss Harkness nodded. "Or at least influence you," she replied. "Take care to guard both your mind and soul." Willow nodded in understanding. "I will," she said. Miss Harkness smiled gently at her. "I'm very proud of you, Willow. You have shown incredible strength of character in the face of great temptations over the past few years, and I have every confidence in you." Willow blinked back tears at this praise from her mentor. The two hugged tight for a moment (a very uncharacteristic and un-British display from Miss Harkness), then the older woman stepped back to the circle. The assembled witches began chanting, bringing their combined power to focus on Willow. She felt the tingle of the magic surrounding her as it built up, and then the powerful flare as the spell activated and space folded itself around her.  
  
In the blink of an eye, the morning sunlight and green, woodsy smell of the coven's compound was replaced by the dimmed lights and hard floors of the Hyperion Hotel. Willow swayed as the backwash of the teleportation spell fluttered around her, then dissipated. She looked up to find herself staring at a blue-haired woman with penetrating eyes and a leathery-looking outfit. And behind the woman lay the limp, still bodies of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and Charles Gunn. Willow felt a sudden anger flare up within her, and a desire to blast the strange woman from the face of the earth. She could feel the magic in her fingertips, aching to be directed out against the woman as fire and lightning and vengeance. Willow's heart thudded in her chest as she struggled to maintain control. She couldn't let herself make a mistake in haste and anger. Willow clamped down firmly on the power, bringing it and herself under control. She had to find out what had happened first. Willow glared up at the strangely familiar woman and said, "Who are you, and what the hell is going on here?"  
  
TBC 


	3. Chapter Three

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. In the interests of full disclosure, I should warn you, gentle reader, that this story is un-beta'd and mostly un-plotted. I do have a good idea of where things are going, though. Thank you DarkLegacies and Koos for your reviews. Hope you continue to enjoy the story.

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The blue-haired woman cocked her head and stared at Willow, her face expressionless. Willow stared back. The woman was beginning to look more and more familiar, although Willow could not remember ever having met any blue women before.

"Who are you?" She repeated. "Did you kill Gunn and Wesley?"

"You are Willow Rosenberg," said the woman. "The shell once knew you." Willow gaped at her, but before she could respond the woman continued, "I did not kill Charles or Wesley. They died in battle again the minions of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart." The woman paused for a moment. "Although they were lower beings, they were not entirely displeasing. I find that I grieve for them, though I should not."

Willow stared at the woman, a horrible suspicion beginning to build in her mind. "Wesley was my guide in this world," the woman continued, her strange eyes going distant. "He cared deeply for the shell."

"The shell," Willow whispered. "Tell me about the shell."

The woman looked at her. "You knew the shell as Winifred Burkle." Willow gasped in horror.

"Who are you? What did you do to Fred?" she demanded, feeling her hands clench into fists as anger grew within her again.

"I am Illyria, the God-King," replied the woman. "I slept in the Deeper Well for millenia, but I was awakened and born from within the shell by my Quaha-Xhan." Her penetrating eyes stared at Willow.

"Deeper Well," Willow murmured. "You're an Old One."

"You are correct," replied Illyria. She started to speak again but Willow interrupted her.

"You murdered Fred," she said in a furious voice, her hands shaking. Illyria saw her eyes beginning to turn black again, and readied herself for an attack. But the young witch simply glared at her.

"Why didn't Angel stop this? Unless," she paused and a look of horror came over her face. "Did Angel do this? Did he awaken you?"

"No," said Illyria. "The souled vampire and his followers attempted to save the shell. After I consumed the shell and came forth, they attempted to destroy me. But they failed."

"Then it **was** you," Willow said accusingly, "you killed them."

"No again," replied the Old One. "You are quick to pass judgment on things you have no knowledge of," she said, her tone slightly acerbic. "After I awoke, I found that the world had changed. My legions were dead and dust, and the humans had overrun the world. Lesser beings had taken the places once held by the Old Ones, and we were forgotten."

Illyria paused again, and her face was troubled. "Wesley killed my Quaha-Xhan, and I was left without worshipers. Soon after, he and the other followers of the vampire robbed me of much of my power."

Illyria actually frowned. "I should have killed them all, but I was uncertain of my place in this new world." Her face resumed its normal expression - or lack thereof. "Wesley agreed to serve as my guide, which is only just since he slew my Quaha-Xhan. And in turn, I deigned to help Angel in his battle against the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart."

"Wolfram and Hart," said Willow, her eyes shading back to green. She stepped closer to Illyria, looking past her to the still bodies of two men she wished she had been better friends with.

"They killed Wes and Gunn," she said. Illyria nodded.

"Correct," she replied. "They fell in battle against the Circle of the Black Thorn, who served as the hand of the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart on this continent." A certain satisfaction crept into her voice. "But we succeeded in destroying the Black Thorn."

"Which leads to the million-dollar question," said Willow. "Where are Angel and Spike?"

Illyria frowned again. "The Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart sent an army of demons against us after we destroyed their minions. The two vampires were captured, and taken away through a portal."

"Captured?" Willow said, shocked.

"I have lost my power to move between worlds, and could not follow," Illyria said, almost mournfully. "And now I have no more guides in this world."

Willow looked into the alien, ice-blue eyes of the thing that had stolen Fred's body, wondering how much of the gentle woman was still in there. She felt a wave of grief pass over her. Wes and Gunn dead, Fred possessed by some nightmare out of an H.P. Lovecraft story. And Angel and Spike captured, probably being tormented in some hell dimension. Why hadn't Angel contacted the Council? Had it all happened too quickly, or had he been just as mistrustful of them as Giles was of him?

Pushing her sorrow back, she focused again on the being standing in front of her. "Tell me everything that happened," she said, firmly. "How you were ... born ... from within Fred, Wesley becoming your guide, what happened with these Black Thorn people. All of it."

The former God-King looked at Willow, her face suddenly thoughtful. Willow felt like squirming under that dispassionate alien gaze, but held herself still.

"I will tell you what you desire to know," Illyria said. "In return, you shall be my new guide."

Willow hadn't expected that reply. "M-me?" she squeaked, suddenly feeling very unsure of herself. She couldn't do that. Be a guide for an ancient, evil thing that had murdered her friend? Never! But Wesley had done it, apparently. Was there something of Fred left inside Illyria? Willow's mind worked quickly, trying to figure out the right thing to do.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "You said you felt grief for Wesley and Gunn, right?"

Illyria cocked her head again. "I do," she admitted, "though it displeases me. I should not feel emotions of any kind, and certainly not for lesser beings."

Willow looked sharply at her. "Do you feel other emotions? Anger, maybe? A desire for revenge against Wolfram and Hart?"

Illyria looked at her for long moment, than replied, "It would please me to destroy more minions of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart."

"And maybe rescue Angel and Spike?" Willow continued. "Did you feel friendship for them too?"

"Perhaps," said Illyria. "But though it pains me to admit it, I cannot attack the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart directly. I have lost much of my former strength."

"You fought alongside Angel and the others against Wolfram and Hart," Willow said, plans beginning to form in her mind. "I'm part of an organization that opposes the Senior Partners, and things like them. Would you be willing to fight with us?"

That cold gaze considered her again. "Will you serve as my guide?" Illyria said.

Willow hesitated. She wasn't sure what she was committing herself to, but she knew they would need Illyria if they were going to rescue Angel and Spike, and disrupt whatever Wolfram and Hart was planning. She nodded.

"I will be your guide," she said.

"Then I will aid you in your fight," said Illyria.

"Then let's get started. Tell me what happened here. Tell me everything."

TBC


	4. Chapter Four

Whilst writing this chapter, which includes a confrontation between Giles and a scheming Roger Wyndam-Pryce, I happened upon a new story Lizbeth Marcs is writing in her live journal which includes a very similar scene, and is a post-Chosen Scooby reunion-bonding fic as well! And of course, it will be a million times better than anything I could write. Sigh.

Nonetheless, I will persevere. After all, Lizbeth is one of the writers who inspired me to get into the terrifying world of fanfic writing. I highly recommend you go read all her stuff (she's linked in my Favorite Authors page). In the mean time, I hope you enjoy my own latest humble scribblings. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, I appreciate it!

* * *

Rupert Giles stood at the window in his office in the new Council Building, watching the London traffic outside, and thinking about lost opportunities. He had been stunned by Willow's news from Los Angeles. Wesley, Cordelia, and Charles Gunn were dead. Angel and Spike captured and taken to a hell dimension. And an Old One was loose on the Earth, and Willow wanted him to ally with it!

He had never met Winifred Burkle, a woman Willow and Faith had described as shy, pleasant, and brilliant. A hot thread of shame ran through his heart as he recalled Angel's plea for help when she had been stricken with an unknown malady, and how he had dismissed the vampire. Willow's on the astral plane, he had said. She can't help you.

And it had been true, but Giles had not even bothered to consider other options, to offer Angel any help at all. He had been suspicious of Angel's intentions from the first moment he heard the vampire and his people had joined Wolfram and Hart, and the intelligence he had received since then had done nothing to allay his suspicions.

But now he began to wonder if he had been too quick to judgment. What if Angel had not been corrupted after all? What if ...? Ah, the two most frustrating words in the English language. He had said them to himself many times in his life, most often in the last eight years.

Rupert Giles was a man who had made many mistakes in his life. Some of them had cost lives. He wondered now if his refusal to help Angel had cost Winifred Burkle her life. He wondered if his unwillingness to risk contact with Wolfram and Hart had cost Wesley, Cordelia, and Mr. Gunn their lives. Along with who knew how many others.

He crossed over to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of scotch. The ice cubes tinkled musically as they fell into the glass, and crackled as the amber liquid covered them. He took a sip and sighed in pleasure at the dark, smoky taste, and at the warmth that seeped down his throat. Giles knew he drank too much, but his next duty certainly called for one.

Sitting down at his desk, he keyed the intercom. "Yes, sir?" his secretary's clipped, upper-crust voice came through, tinnily.

"Margaret, is Roger in the building?" He was pleasantly surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

"One moment, sir." He heard the rustling of paper as Margaret checked the day's schedule for the Deputy Head of the Watchers' Council. "Yes, sir," she said after a moment. "He is in a meeting with Mr. Macnair and some of the younger Watchers in the main conference room."

"Would you page him and ask him to come see me as soon as he's done?"

"Of course, sir." Margaret was very efficient, and Giles sometimes felt that she, more than anyone else, kept the Council up and running.

He leaned back in his chair and sipped meditatively at his scotch. The old Council's contacts in the Los Angeles area had been his primary sources of information about the goings-on at Wolfram and Hart over the past year. He had a few Slayers in southern California whose missions occasionally took them into L.A., but they were under strict orders to avoid contact with Wolfram and Hart, and they didn't make the best spies anyway.

Andrew actually had a few contacts in the city's demon underground, but they were unreliable sources at best. Not to mention the fact that the boy was prone to exaggeration and the excessive use of pop culture references - even more so than Xander and Buffy had been when they were teenagers. Andrew Wells was twenty-two, but Giles frankly despaired of ever turning him into an adult.

So he was left with only the Council's collection of paid informants and ex-intelligence types that lived in the area. He knew none of them personally, and he was beginning to wonder if they had been telling him everything they knew about Angel's tenure as head of the L.A. branch of Wolfram and Hart. He was beginning to wonder if these agents had divided loyalties.

When Giles had begun the herculean effort of reconstructing the Watchers' Council a year ago, he had sometimes envied Sisyphus his boulder and hill. He was faced with the task of locating and contacting an unknown number of Slayers across the globe, most of whom would have no idea what had happened to them. And most of the Council's employees had been killed in the First Evil's assaults, especially in the destruction of the old headquarters building.

In sheer desperation for warm bodies to fill critical positions, Giles had reached out to a number of people who had retired from active duty with the old Council. He had not only needed them for personnel reasons, but to assist him in gaining control of the Council's financial assets (though Willow's computer forensic skills had aided tremendously in this regard).

Their help had come with a price. The old guard demanded a voice in the new Council, and Giles was forced to give it to them. Their hide-bound conservatism had been a thorn in his side ever since, mostly in the person of the man he had been forced to name his deputy head of the Watchers' Council. The man who he could now hear speaking to Margaret in the outer office.

"Mr. Giles," her voice came over the intercom. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is here now."

"Please send him in," Giles replied. As the door opened, he stood up and came around to the front of his desk to shake hands with the man he both relied on and despised - Roger Wyndam-Pryce.

"Roger," Giles said, forcing amiability. "Thank you for coming to see me on such short notice."

"No trouble at all, Rupert," the older man replied, his voice equally filled with false friendliness. "What can I do for you?"

"Please, sit down," Giles said, gesturing toward a comfortable leather-backed chair in the corner of the office. "Can I offer you a drink?" Now that the moment had arrived, he found he was reluctant to get started. No matter what his personal feelings for Roger were, he did not relish having to tell the man his only son was dead.

"A scotch would be most welcome," Pryce replied, sitting down. Giles went to the cabinet and poured a drink for his guest. He hesitated a moment, then re-filled his own glass. Giles handed Roger the drink, then leaned against the edge of his desk and took a deep breath.

"I've just spoken with Willow in Los Angeles," he said. Pryce was aware that she had teleported there early in the morning in response to a vision she had experienced, and that the vision had involved Angel and the others in combat against hordes of demons.

"Yes?" Roger prompted him when he did not continue right away. Giles braced himself.

"I'm afraid the news is very bad," he said. "Roger, I'm sorry to have to tell you this..." Giles trailed off, then took hold of himself. "I'm afraid Wesley is dead."

Pryce said nothing, merely sipping at his scotch. His face had not changed at all.

"I am truly sorry, Roger," Giles said, allowing real grief to enter his voice. He did not offer any praise for Wesley, knowing that the older man had never accepted his son's decision to work with Angel, even before Wolfram and Hart, and did not want to hear what he would consider to be false or unearned praise. Giles spared a moment to wonder if Roger had ever considered anything Wesley had done praiseworthy.

"Is this certain?" Pryce asked after taking a few more sips.

"I'm afraid so," Giles replied. "Willow saw his body with her own eyes."

Giles thought he saw something flash through Pryce's eyes at that remark, and his face sagged ever so briefly. But the older man quickly recovered from the momentary lapse, and his face smoothed back into expressionlessness.

"I see," he said, then took a larger sip of his drink. "Thank you for telling me as soon as possible."

"If there is anything I can do, anything you need," Giles said, but stopped when Pryce waved a hand dismissively.

"What's done is done," he said, his voice steady. "My son made his choices."

Giles stared at Roger for a moment, then decided to move on. If anything, the next part of this conversation was going to be even harder. "There's more," he said. "It seems Angel was not quite so corrupted as we thought him to be." Pryce snorted, but said nothing.

"He struck hard against the Senior Partners' operations last night, crippling their power in the United States by killing a number of their high-ranking minions," Giles continued. "It was in this fight that Wesley lost his life."

Giles downed the rest of his drink. "The Senior Partners struck back, and a number of Angel's people were killed. Angel and Spike themselves were captured." He paused, waiting for a reaction from Roger. Seeing none was forthcoming, he went on.

"One of Angel's former co-workers has been possessed by an Old One. However, Willow informs me that this entity actually aided Angel in his conflict with the Senior Partners, and wishes to form a partnership with us."

"A partnership?" asked Pryce, seeming for the first time to take an interest in what Giles was saying. "To what end?"

Giles hesitated. "This Old One - Illyria was the name, Willow said - this Old One has lost much of its former strength, but remains extremely powerful by our standards. And it apparently hates the Senior Partners. Willow has offered to act as a sort of guide to this being, acclimating it to life in our world. In exchange, Illyria has agreed to assist us against Wolfram and Hart."

Giles grimaced to himself, unsure whether he should reveal what else Willow and Illyria had agreed to do. Screw it, he decided. Maybe it was the scotch, or maybe he was just sick of dancing around Pryce. "Illyria has also agreed to aid us in a rescue attempt."

"Rescue!?" Roger spluttered, his face finally showing emotion. "Rescue two vampires from a well-deserved sojourn in hell?"

"How well-deserved, I wonder?" Giles replied, icily. "It seems that Angel was on our side all along. It seems that he has dealt a powerful blow to the forces of evil. It seems that our intelligence on his intentions was wrong." Giles went on, in a voice low and lethal, "it seems **your** intelligence was wrong."

"My intelligence," Pryce hissed. "What are you implying?"

"Our assets in Los Angeles are all the old Council's contacts," Giles said, carefully keeping his voice even. "I'm beginning to question the accuracy of their information."

Roger suddenly smirked at him. "No doubt you wish to believe only the best of Angel. After all, your Slayer was quite fond of him, was she not? Fond of them both."

"This has nothing to do with Buffy," Giles said, coldly. "I have known Angel both with and without his soul, and though I personally cannot abide him, I know that with the soul he is a good man. He serves our cause."

"He is not a man!" Roger retorted, standing up. "He's a vampire, and he cannot help his nature. And I will not allow you to risk the lives of good men and women to rescue those worthless bloodsuckers!"

"Not allow?" Giles' voice was quiet and deadly as he also stood up straight. "Need I remind you, Roger, which one of us is head of the Council?"

"You are not above question, Rupert. Would you so casually violate our policies? Would you spit on everything the Council stands for?"

"I prefer to see it as honoring what the Council stands for, Roger." With an effort, Giles put some warmth back into his voice. "The Council has always stood for fighting evil, protecting those who cannot protect themselves. Can you not see the opportunity we have here? Wolfram and Hart are the most insidious foe we face, and we have a chance to do tremendous damage to their plans, perhaps even strike them a fatal blow!"

"I see," said Pryce, his voice thick with anger. "I see you are still a pathetic excuse for a Watcher. I see you are still your Slayer's lap-dog. I see I was right to mistrust you, right to-" He stopped short, catching himself.

"To do what, Roger?" Giles replied, angrily. "To withhold information from me? Or worse?"

Roger Wyndam-Pryce stared at him, proud and arrogant. "I will fight you on this, Rupert. I will not allow you to destroy everything we have rebuilt on some quixotic crusade." He was breathing heavily, his eyes filled with fury. "I will fight you to the last." Turning, he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Giles stared after him for a moment, then went back to his chair and sat down heavily. He cursed himself for getting impatient, for getting into a power struggle with Pryce without proof of the man's falsehood. And for this? For Angel and Spike? He hadn't even been certain he was going to support Willow's plan, and now he had committed himself to it! If he backed down now, Pryce would see it as proof his lack of resolve, and begin pressing him on other matters. But if Giles was forced into a struggle for power without being fully prepared, if he lost, then the Council might revert to its old, grasping, reactionary ways.

And that would be a disaster. The Council's old methods were simply not enough to deal with the new realities. The Council would fracture, and the new Slayers would become more vulnerable to their enemies, and ripe for recruitment by various power-hungry outsiders in the supernatural world.

Giles cursed again, bitterly. There was no help for it. He had to see this through, now. And to do so, successfully, he and Willow would need help. To both accomplish the rescue mission and either avert or win a power struggle within the Council, they would need their strongest, most effective comrades. Giles chuckled sardonically to himself as the ridiculous name swam up out of his memories. They would need the Scooby Gang.

It was almost nine months now. Nine months since Buffy, Xander and Willow had parted on very bad terms. In fact, their parting had been so bitter and angry that he would have sworn at the time their friendship was ended forever. Yet now he would have to persuade them to come back together, as co-workers if not friends, and to work with himself as well, though Buffy and Xander, at least, had been almost as angry at him as they had been at each other.

Since Buffy had gone to Europe, he had received the occasional phone call or post card, and she and Dawn had both come to visit at Christmas. A cold dread seized his heart as Giles realized his decision to keep Spike's return secret was now going to come back to haunt him. Buffy would be furious with him. Still, she would want to be involved.

From Xander, Giles had gotten only impersonal progress reports from Africa. And the young man had never been a big fan of Angel and Spike even before his falling out with Buffy and Willow. Should he even ask him for help? But Xander had done extraordinary work in Africa, finding more Slayers than any other single person anywhere in the Council's employ. He had also built a network of contacts and allies that stretched all across the continent south of the Sahara. And, in fact, he had pretty much accomplished all he could in his current position. Perhaps it was time to recall him to London. Perhaps it was time to see if Xander wanted new duties.

Maybe it could work, Giles thought. Maybe they all could put aside their differences and work together.

And maybe they would all kill each other, or him.

Giles sighed in resignation. There was only one way to find out. And really, he had no other choice. He picked up the phone and began dialing. It was time to talk to his Slayer.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

So sorry for the delay in getting this chapter up.I had a really hard time getting inside Buffy's head, and I never did get her voice right. I'll try and post on a more regular basis from now on. Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed!

* * *

The Immortal was not pleased with his current situation. Cowering in the catacombs beneath his city, hiding from his own paramour, his _bella_ Buffy. Why must she be so unreasonable? What did it matter if he smuggled the occasional load of heroin or Eastern European prostitutes? Was he not a generous patron of the arts, a donor to numerous charities, and a benefactor to the Church? Indeed, were not most of his business interests well within the law?

He fastidiously brushed some dirt off the sleeve of his jacket and sighed. This breakup had come at a most inconvenient time. And from the sound of things, his _ragazza_ was destroying most of his merchandise as well as killing off a good number of his employees. It would be no easy task to rebuild his smuggling network after this disaster.

The sound of footsteps alerted him to the approach of his faithful servant, Aldo. The mournful-faced demon was limping and holding his arm stiffly at his side.

The Immoral felt a brief stab of alarm. "She didn't see you enter the tunnels, did she, Aldo?"

Aldo's long ears twitched, and he shook his head. "No, my master," he replied. "The others managed to distract her so I could make my escape."

Sighing in relief, the Immortal clapped Aldo on the arm, ignoring his servant's wince.

"Good," he said. "How much damage did she do up there?"

Aldo looked even more hang-dog, if that was possible. "I am afraid our entire shipment will be destroyed, master," he replied. "As well as the warehouse and most of your people."

The Immortal sighed again. Buffy certainly had a fiery temper worthy of an _Italiana_, and matched with her American self-righteousness that was a dangerous combination. Yes, this would definitely put a crimp in his operations for a while. This was certainly distressing, perhaps even more so than losing Buffy's affection. He had genuinely enjoyed her sparkling, witty personality, and had taken great pleasure in showing her around Rome and educating her to Italian and European culture. Not to mention her enthusiasm in _l'amore_.

Still, there were plenty of other women out there. And it would never have lasted, anyway. He would have grown bored of her, or she would have been killed, or something else would have inevitably driven them apart. It was always this way for the Immortal, who had cut himself off from humanity a long time ago.

But this certainly rated as one of his most memorable break-ups of all time. The Immortal felt himself cheering up at the thought. After all, what was most valuable to him was not money or power, but new experiences. And Buffy was one of the most unique individuals he had ever met.

"Come, Aldo," he said, starting down the tunnel. "At least we still have our health, no?"

Aldo nodded loyally, cradling his arm (which was now dripping dark blood) closer. "As always, you are the winner in the end, master," he replied, following the Immortal.

The Immortal chuckled to himself. Yes, things always worked out for him in the end. Still, he would stay out of Buffy's way after this. No need to tempt Fate. Why bother? In another fifty years, she would be dead, and he would still be here.

That was the way it always was and always would be. Friends, enemies, lovers, he outlasted them all.

He would miss her, though.

Buffy stood in the middle of the burning warehouse and wondered if she would ever develop better instincts when it came to romantic relationships. Maybe she should just swear off men altogether, she reflected.

A floppy-eared demon that reminded her (uncomfortably) of Clem ran at her with an axe in its hand. Buffy dodged its first blow and stabbed it through the chest with her sword, then kicked its body at a human who was aiming a pistol at her with shaking hands.

The dead demon knocked the human off his feet and the gunshot went wide. Buffy quickly ran over to the human and punched him once in the face, the crack of bone breaking quickly followed by a hard thud as his head bounced off the floor. The man slumped, unconscious, blood streaming from his shattered nose.

Buffy felt she should probably drag the man over to the warehouse's entrance. After all, he might be a bad guy, but he was also human.

Instead, she stalked along the wall toward a small knot of the Immortal's henchmen who were facing off with two Slayers. Buffy tore into them from behind, killing two warty, green-skinned demons before they even knew she was there. A third demon proved more troublesome, lasting almost eight seconds before she chopped its head off.

The two younger Slayers, Bianca from Naples and a girl from Austria whose name she could never remember, finished off the demons they were facing. That left two humans with clubs in their hands and fear in their eyes.

"You can walk out that door," Buffy said to them, pointing to the entrance of the warehouse, "or I can kill you." She wondered what she would do if they called her bluff. She wondered if it was a bluff. Fortunately, she was spared the decision, as the two men dropped their weapons and ran for the entrance.

Buffy turned and surveyed the warehouse floor. The rest of the Immortal's henchmen were down and dead, or gone. The other three Slayers that had participated in the raid were walking over to Buffy, Bianca, and the Austrian girl. What was her name, dammit? Ilsa? Elsa? Something like that.

"What now, Buffy?" Bianca asked. Buffy turned to see the Neapolitan Slayer and Ilsa-or-Elsa were looking at her with something like awe in their eyes.

Buffy knew she had been something of a disappointment to the new Slayers of Western Europe. They had been told all about her, the greatest Slayer ever, came back from the dead, saved the world a bunch of times, blah, blah, blah. She knew she hadn't really lived up to the hype.

In fact, she had pretty much been on permanent vacation this past year, only occasionally visiting other Slayers to patrol with them. She had spent most of her time hanging out with Dawn, partying, shopping, and sunning herself on the beach. Until tonight, the new European Slayers had never seen Buffy in full combat mode. She guessed she was living up to her reputation now.

She felt a little guilty about it, like she had let the new kids down or something. But hey, didn't she deserve a break after all she had been through? Hadn't she done her time? You bet your ass she had.

"Sweep the warehouse and drag out any survivors," Buffy said to Bianca and the others. "Then let's clear out before the police get here." The other Slayers swept into motion, and Buffy felt the tiniest little bit of satisfaction penetrate her gloom. She had planned and executed this attack with more than a little trepidation, but they had pulled it off without a hitch.

Well, except for losing track of the Immortal in all the chaos. It looked like he had escaped, and Buffy felt bad that she didn't feel worse about it.

It had been a good vacation. At first. Buffy had been intrigued when she met the Immortal, a mysterious individual who might or might not be evil. He had been charming and handsome, and he had shown her around Rome, and somehow she had wound up sleeping with him after a month or so.

She knew Dawn and Giles didn't approve, but she was just having a little fun. It had been several months since they had started dating, and just when she was finally beginning to relax around him she had discovered how he was making a lot of his money. Evil or amoral, she didn't see much difference, and she knew what she had to do. But she was still a little glad she had not had to kill him.

Buffy followed the girls outside, then told them to split up and return to their normal stations throughout Europe. She had snuck each of them into Rome over the past week in preparation for her assault on the Immortal's operations, and she was pleased with her ability to act stealthily around her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend in the mean time. The other Slayers took off, and Buffy and Bianca set off towards her place, taking a twisting route to avoid any pursuit.

Bianca chattered excitedly about the fight, still pumped up on adrenalin and victory. She was obviously impressed with Buffy's skills, now that she had finally put them to use. Buffy listened distractedly out of one ear, but she was mostly thinking about what Giles was going to say, whether the Immortal was going to take the hint and skip town or if she would have to finish him off, and...

There was no use lying to herself. Tonight had been like old times, for the first time in a long while. She was wishing that it was Xander and Willow by her side right now. She was wishing that Giles was waiting for her back at the apartment, with his books and tea, instead of Andrew, with his comic books and disgusting European colas. She wanted to hear Anya fussing over Xander and bemoaning the dry cleaning bill, and she wanted to hear Tara gently chiding Willow for some spell that had gone a little wacky but with no harm done.

And God, how she wanted to hear Spike make some sarcastic remark, or cock his head and look at her with that ridiculous gaze that somehow still warmed her all through her body.

She wondered what Angel was doing right now, in Los Angeles, at Wolfram and Hart. She wondered if whatever price he had paid for this new power was worth it. She hoped he hadn't been corrupted, and a part of her would never believe it, no matter what Giles said.

Buffy and Bianca arrived at her apartment building and climbed the stairs to her floor. Buffy sighed in resignation. The old days were gone forever. Spike was dead, and Angel was a stranger now.

Willow and Giles were always so busy running the Council now, and they had both grown into their roles in a way that made Buffy both proud and sad. They had changed, and she was still the same. They had left her behind, and she had no one to blame but herself.

Her heart ached when she thought of Xander. They had said awful things to each other that last time they were together in London. He had really hurt her, and she had to admit to herself that she had hurt him just as bad, for a long time. And poor Willow, she had tried to make peace and wound up shouting at them both. He had left and gone to Africa, and hadn't called or e-mailed her even once. He had sent her an incredibly beautiful wood carving for Christmas, along with an incredibly impersonal card. "Merry X-Mas," that was it! And he had sent Dawn this really expensive ivory carving, and a long letter that her younger sister refused to let Buffy read. Brat.

Buffy wearily opened her apartment door and let herself and Bianca in. "I'm home," she called out.

Dawn and Andrew came out of the kitchen, and Buffy immediately sensed something was way wrong. Dawn looked furious, and Andrew was shame-faced, with a nicely developing bruise under his right eye.

"How'd it go?" her younger sister asked her. Bianca started to babble about the fight but Buffy cut her off with a sharp wave.

"What's going on here?" she said, in what she hoped was a tone that brooked no debate.

Dawn's face changed from anger to sadness as she looked at her older sister. Now Buffy started feeling just a little panicked.

"What is it? Andrew, what did you do?" Andrew and Bianca both blanched, and Buffy wondered exactly what her expression looked like right now.

"He didn't do anything, Buffy," Dawn said quickly. "Except what he was told to do. And I already punished him for it."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Buffy felt her voice starting to rise.

"Sit down, Buffy," Dawn said, following her own advice by sitting on the couch.

Buffy Summers looked into her sister's eyes and wondered when she learned how to look so compassionate. The expression on Dawn's face reminded her of nothing so much as her mother's when she had told Buffy that she and Hank were getting a divorce. Buffy felt a cold fist close around her heart, and she discovered she was sitting down on the couch next to Dawn. She couldn't remember doing that.

"What is it?" she asked, simply.

And Dawn told her, and it was both better and worse than she had feared.

TBC


End file.
